


Constellations

by noirchime



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (not the focus of the story however), Alternate Universe - No Game, Fluff, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Piling, Quadrant Confusion, Stargazing, Tropicshipping, gamkar - Freeform, miracrails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14208798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noirchime/pseuds/noirchime
Summary: Gamzee makes the long and arduous trek across Alternia to visit his moirail.





	Constellations

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally written as a gift for someone on tumblr, but i decided to post it here as well. not that confident in the quality of my writing here, so expect edits. it's also unbeta'd, so if you catch any mistakes, feel free to drop a comment!

#  _Constellations_

 

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and _motherfuck_ are you doing some real solid sortsa planning for tonight. It ain’t your usual, sure, but you got your knowing on a certain special star-kissed brother what’s deserving of a partner what can plan his way around a visit. You decided on the date no less than a perigree ago- tonight’s the night you finally make the trek across your planet to visit your moirail.

 

That’s right, you got your lucky ass self a moirail. You got no clue as to how in all mirth’s reign _that_ happenstance came about, but you’re glad as all hell that it did. You can’t remember a day in your _life_ where you didn’t crave Karkat’s soft touch, hard gaze, sweet placations and precious little palms soothing along your jaw all gentle-like. He’s your very own fire-bright miracle, and you’d be a motherfucking fool not to love him with everything you got in you.

 

Luckily for you, the sun ain’t coming up for a good few hours, so you still got plenty of time to be making a picture of yourself for Karkat. Brother’s a romantic if you ever did see one, and you’ve watched the bitching romcoms he lent you- all of them. Ain’t really your flavour of Faygo, but you’d been watching, waiting, hoping for a peek into Karkat’s longings.

 

Even before you two got your fine selves diamonded up, you’d be stealing glances at him in the scenes he loved most, trying to get your peek on at his expression. He’s got the prettiest motherfucking smile you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing in all your sweeps.

 

 _If only you’d known what he looked like atop a pile,_ your thinkpan says, and begins to wander.

 

Your lead-stick stops short in the middle of the swirl you’d been drawing on the notepad you’d meant for ideas. You ain’t too good at this, it seems, but you do got plenty of ideas on how you wanna treat your bro.

 

-

 

It takes you another quarter-hour to get all your thoughts down and sorted somewhat orderly-like on the paper, but you reckon it’s worth it. If you can all be making your perfect prettiest palest bro happy, there ain’t nothing you won’t do.

 

You close your notebook, stick the lead-stick back in a drawer of your desk and slip the piece of paper with your plan on it into your pocket. Your clothes are cleaned, your hair is washed, your fangs are brushed and your paint is freshly applied with thick, clean strokes in front of your ablutionblock’s reflection plane. You reckon you make as much of a picture as you ever could do.

 

You stand up, give your reflection plane your best fang-filled grin and then you’re on your way.

 

_I’m in love with every part of you, brother, and I’m coming. You just sit tight, my loveliest motherfuckin’ Karkat._

 

-

 

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and if there’s one thing you absolutely loathe with every festering fibre of your being, it’s getting out of your recuperacoon after a long day. Your blood being as freakish and brightly-coloured as it is means that the slime is always warm when you wake up, and it gets hard to leave that warmth when you know a world of cold floors and menial tasks awaits you elsewhere. You have better shit to do than sit around picking slime out of your carpet every time it spills over, thank you very fucking much.

 

Despite your usual claims, there are some forms of cold you can tolerate just fine- one of them being your pitifully lanky moirail, Gamzee. You’d been utterly fucking gobsmacked upon finding out that he was _not_ in fact a fellow lowblood hemoanon, but a highblood and as close to being a seadweller as purples get, but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been pale for him ever since you first met. He is your other half- he calms you, balances you, _completes you._ You’re well-aware that several of your friends find your belief in troll serendipity laughable, but as long as you have Gamzee to support you, cherish you and pity you with everything he’s got despite knowing you better than anyone, they can go fuck themselves.

 

You heave yourself out of the slime with a muted groan, brain still numbed by the tart tang of the sopor. You’ve got no idea how Gamzee _actively consumed_ this shit. Well, maybe you do, but it’s more painful to think about than the rest of his unfortunate circumstances combined.

 

‘Fuck!’ You mean to grab the side of your ‘coon to hoist yourself up, but somehow manage to slip, lose your balance and end up in a muddled heap on the floor. Your head is ringing, and the sun has barely set.

 

As you go about showering the slime off your body and putting on some clothes, you have the niggling feeling that you’ve forgotten something. Surely it can wait until after you’ve had evening meal and gained some actual sense about you.

 

After you finish washing the slime off your body, you shut off the ablution water and shake off both the droplets and the persisting feeling.

 

On the trek back to your respiteblock, you’re accompanied by no less than two extraordinarily welcome presences: a slice of grubloaf smeared with the breakfast grub garnish Kanaya gave you, and a mug full of the wild-growing beans Nepeta ground up for you to brew. The grubloaf itself is Gamzee’s cooking, and you realise for about the twentieth time how lucky you are that your moirail is a competent cook.

 

You’re getting settled at your desk for a vigorous night of trolling when something pinned to your calendar makes you do a double-take and very nearly drop your slice of grubloaf.

 

There, pinned to tonight’s date.

 

_Gamzee’s coming today._

 

-

 

You spend about six minutes freaking the fuck out like a lusus whose charge decided to wander off in the middle of a highblood culling party. Except you’re no pants-shitting wiggler, you’re a (practically) grown troll with an actual, real moirail and an actual, real date tonight.

 

At least, you’re hoping it’s a date. You can’t find it in yourself to blame your imagination for dreaming up several scenarios involving you, Gamzee and your second-ever pile.

 

Oh gods, will Gamzee laugh at you if you show up to answer the push portal in sweatpants? Does he even know where you live? What if you made a mistake in the coordinates? What if he got himself culled out there, being the alarmingly pacifistic cultist he is?

 

 You flatly dismiss your train of thought with a hearty swig of your mug, and promptly have to prevent yourself from spit-taking. It’s still boiling hot.

 

You occupy yourself with re-reading your last Trollian log with Gamzee while you finish your drink. It’s not until you reach his last words that you realise that you’re grinning like a moron, and focus on three lines in particular.

 

**TC: AiN’t EvIlS nOr TeMpTaTiOnS nOr EmPiReS nOr UnIvErSeS wHaT cOuLd SePaRaTe Me FrOm ThE lOvE oF yOuR hOlY sElF, bRoThEr.**

**TC: PiTy YoU sWeEt As SiN, LoVe YoU pUrE aS rEdEmPtIoN.**

**TC: <>**

**CG: <>**

 

You fucking love your moirail, and he fucking loves you back. So you’re going to do your damndest to make tonight unforgettable, and there’s no reason to freak out when his presence is what calms you the most.

 

You finish your mug and are just finishing cleaning it off in the culinary block sink when you hear a knock on the door.

 

‘Coming, asswipe!’

 

-

 

So secluded are you on your beach to the southeast, that it takes you a good night and a rest’s worth of walking to get to your sharp-eyed miracle brother’s hive. The strain of the distance never bothered you none, not when you got energy in stores thanks to whatever crazy ass genetics your caste landed you with.

 

Compared to the hives around it, you reckon Karkat’s is pretty motherfucking swanky. It’s got enough of the typical angles that it’s like any other hive built by Alternian carpenter drones, but it’s got a certain flair to it what you know’s gotta be Karkat’s very own touch. Sure, it ain’t as fancy as Equius’ or nearly half as big as Vriska’s, but it’s neat, cosy and real bright with tarps the very colour of your moirail’s own holy shade. You reckon the place is a sight to behold.

 

When you finally step up to the push portal and get to knocking the same pattern you always do (gotta be careful, sick fucks out there what don’t dig his pretty shade nearly as much as you), it takes not thirty seconds before he opens the door, standing before you with the most gorgeous, coy little smile you reckon you’ve ever been greeted with. Something in your pusher just up and bust, probably. You’re gonna burst with the love of him.

 

You settle on inviting yourself in, petting Crabdad to reassure him that you ain’t no threat and closing the door behind yourself before finally, _motherfucking finally,_ wrapping your arms around your precious lovely candy boy in an embrace and lifting him up in the palest hug you can up and muster. Brother sputters, shifts like he’s gonna protest, and hugs you back, nestling his head into your shoulder.

 

 _Messiahs_ do you love it when he does that.

 

‘I missed you, asshole,’ he murmurs, voice muffled by the sleeve of your T-shirt.

‘Done up and missed you too, moirail mine.’

 

-

 

You and Gamzee spend the first quarter of the visit unpacking what little he brought with him, getting yourselves situated in your respiteblock (neither of you have mentioned piling materials yet, but you know he’s thought about it just as much as you from the way he eyes the small setup you threw together last time, _oh God_ ) and talking about your friends. He brings you up to date on his share of neighbouring friends (though you know the highbloods are a lot further apart than the rest of you), and you tell him about Aradia’s new moirail, Tavros, Nepeta’s shipping endeavours as well as Kanaya’s last-ditch efforts to get you to model for her when Vriska had “somewhere else to be”. He tells you you’d make a mighty fine model, and your face turns a shameful shade of scarlet.

 

And then there’s the question of the more… intimate side of your moirallegiance.

 

You can appreciate the need to ease into things, set the mood, sure, but it’s almost torturous to imagine what Gamzee could be doing to you right now and isn’t. You know he’s going to ask you about a pile sometime, and if not now, _when?_ It’s nagging at the back of your thinkpan, and as much as you wish he wouldn’t, Gamzee notices.

 

‘What’s getting at you, best friend? Know that if a motherfucker’s got something on his pan what he wants addressed, I can all-’

 

‘I know, Gamzee. I know you’ll listen,’ you butt in. ‘But this really isn’t something you need to worry about.’

 

He studies your face, and doesn’t look convinced. A soothing smile is aimed in your direction, and it comes scarily close to achieving its purpose.

 

‘Brother, c’mon. Ain’t every day I get my most palest of brothers up in the same block as me. Jams don’t start with “nothing I need to be worrying about”.’

There it is. As much as you convince yourself that you’re better than some bullshit wiggler who swoons at the sight of their favourite PaleTube star, your cheeks continue to redden. Betrayal.

 

Gamzee knows he’s got you right where he wants you when you turn your head, trying to hide the blush. His hand moves towards you slowly and gently begins tracing up one side. You give him a quiet chirr of encouragement and his lip curls upwards delightedly.

 

‘Okay. So maybe I’m just thinking about how I somehow ended up with the world’s most fang-rottingly affectionate troll in all of Alternia as my moirail, and maybe I really fucking like that, but maybe I also wish I could do as much for him as he does for me, and maybe I’m being an utter grubfucking idiot in overthinking everything about to-’

 

He silences you with the soft press of his lips against yours.

 

-

 

Kissing your moirail is like kissing a motherfucking cloud. He’s _so_ soft, and his lips are so inviting against your own. You know yours ain’t so much soft but chapped as all hell, but he don’t seem to mind one bit as he sighs breathily and wraps his arms around your torso. You start up a gentle pattern of running your hands up and down his sides while you kiss, and alright, maybe the romcoms he showed you don’t feature no moirails what kiss for _this_ long. But he’s okay with it, and you’re damn well pleased when he parts his lips obediently to make room for your tongue, so what are his romcoms to tell you how to do your pale?

 

You two kiss for a while longer before Karkat’s gotta break for air, lips swollen where you’d taken them. He’s pretty as sin when he’s enjoying himself like this. You break a web of spit what’s connecting your mouths with a smile, and he flushes a darker shade of red.

 

‘Dunno if even the sun could up and match you now- that’s a mighty fine colour you got going on there,’ you remark.

 

He huffs. ‘You say that as if you’re not in exactly the same state under that paint.’ And he’s right. You’re blushing just as much.

 

‘For serious, though. Could burn me up if you were fixin’ to, radiant and bright and warm as you are. Ain’t nothing in the universe I’d rather be gravitating around.’ Karkat chokes.

 

‘Okay, spill it, Gamzee.  _What?_ And here I thought you’d slept through half my valiant efforts to educate you on the art of romantic comedy.’ You just grin at him, real wide and real true to your love for him.

 

‘Ain’t no romcom what could handle the lines I wanna be saying at you, bro,’ you reply cheekily, waggling your painted eyebrows suggestively. He shifts against you.

 

‘Is that so?’

 

‘Uh-huh. You wanna hear ‘em?’

 

‘If you help me make the pile first.’

 

‘You got your sweet ass a deal, Karkat.’

 

‘My _what_ -’

 

‘Objectively speaking, brother,’ you lie.

 

-

 

It takes the pair of you about five minutes to throw together a pile. First, your romcom cases and a bunch of pillows Terezi and Kanaya made for you, then his horns, empty paint tins, some fabric and a blanket for comfort. It’s still sufficiently pointy when you test with one hand.

 

You stare at it for a moment before you are acutely aware of Gamzee standing behind you. Slowly, gently, he picks you up, tucks you under one arm, carries you over to the pile, gets settled among the objects and lets you nestle into his lap. _Fuck yes._

 

‘So, Gamzee,’ you begin once you’re sufficiently squished into his side. ‘Enlighten me. Expand my metaphorical goddamn horizons. Spill it like you’re twice you’re age and out showering in Faygo or whatever the fuck you're meant to do during those rituals.’

 

He places a short kiss on your face and hums. ‘Your horns, bro.’

 

‘…Uh-huh.’ You do in fact have horns, and you’re already prickling slightly uncomfortably. Their size has never been much of an asset of yours.

 

‘Ain’t no other horns like ‘em anywhere else in the world. Got you your very own set of lovely nubs what can’t never be replicated by nobody.’ Great, so he’s as much of a freak about your tiny, pathetic stubs as he is your blood.

 

‘If they were any bigger, I couldn’t stick my voicebox between ‘em and purr for fear of gettin’ skewered. Miracle of your nubs ‘s that they let me love on you like I could love on nobody else.’ Your mouth falls open, and an intelligent silence ensues.

 

And then Gamzee goes right ahead and rests his head on yours. If you were literally anyone else, he’d never be able to get that close. He starts up a low, rumbly purr, and you can feel it in your horns, reverberating back down and through your chest.

 

‘Love them nubs, brother. You should, too,’ he adds, and brings a hand up to join his head. You don’t really enjoy looking at your horns, so you know you aren’t exactly pampering them beyond the basic shit that prevents them from cracking. And of course, Gamzee notices.

 

‘Karbrother. You been polishing ‘em still?’ You hesitate, and he knows. His hand traces the tip of your right horn, and you sigh.

 

‘You just sit tight, moirail o’ mine. Where you keep the kit?’

 

Gamzee’s last wriggling day present to you was a horn care kit. You have absolutely no clue where he got the idea, considering he’s never paid attention to his own longer, wavy horns a day in his life. You _trust_ Gamzee, so it’s not like it’d hurt to let him look at your horns. Besides, you’re not going to act as if you don’t _really fucking enjoy_ how much care he puts into everything he does for you.

 

‘…Under the ablutionblock sink.’

 

As he lifts you off his lap and places you back into the pile, you grab a fistful of his shirt and kiss him. He’s smiling beneath your lips.

 

When you break apart, you notice that the tips of his ears are purple. Good. But he’s looking at you funny.

 

‘What.’ You deadpan.

 

‘…Got paint on you, brother,’ he chuckles, and taps your nose. You let out an indignant click to his back as he leaves, and furiously scrub at your cheeks with a sleeve.

 

-

 

Head buzzing from the rush of pale pheromones you always get ‘round your moirail, you leave him to his block with a satisfied smile. Turns out your planning was gonna work out just fine. Karkat weren’t fucking complaining when you offered to get at his horns.

 

Once you reach the ablutionblock, you uncaptchalogue what you know you’ll need, and stick it in the horn kit you retrieve from under the sink. Facing your reflection, you grin the satisfied grin of a troll what’s about to get his palerom on. The brother in the mirror grins back, and you close the kit and make for the door.

 

When you finally reach Karkat’s block again, he’s fiddling with the hem of his sweater, occasionally picking dark lint off the fabric with a hooked claw. You kneel down beside him and stop the ministrations by gently capturing his smaller hand in one of yours.

 

‘You just lie back and sit pretty for me, brother. Perfect. Let a motherfucker what’s more than willing get to takin’ _real good_ care of you.’ Karkat _stares_ as you gently urge him to lie in the pile and you can’t believe that came outta your own noise hole.

 

Apparently your moirail can’t, neither, because he’s dumbfounded even after you take out a soft cloth and begin gently cleaning his horns with it. As you swirl ‘round and draw closer and closer to the sensitive bases, his body coils, and he chirrups quietly. Motherfucker’s just as into this as you are.

 

‘Brother mine, my most beauteous diamond love,’ you purr at him, low and thick. ‘You’re motherfucking beautiful, you are, drawing me in all fateful-like under your piteous spell. Makes a brother wanna get to loving on you so bad...”

 

You continue on with your gentle movements, rubbing up and into the natural grooves of his horns. You slow and pay extra good attention when his purr jumps and rises in his throat. Motherfucking miracles.

 

When you reach the red base of his horns, Karkat lets a high, sweet sound of pleasure tumble from his lips, and you chuckle softly.

 

‘This your spot?’ His only verbal response is another groan as he droops further back into the pile, brow smoothing out as the tension leaves his body.

 

‘Mm. Gettin’ you some polish, I reckon,” you rasp, and he nods as eagerly as he can while he ain’t got no tension left in him.

 

You drop the cloth, slather your fingers in the stuff and continue your attentions to his wonderful nubs. Karkat’s contented, relaxed purr is the most miraculous music you think you’ve ever up and heard.

 

‘Gh- Gamzee.. That’s good,’ he chokes, and you’re pretty sure his toes are curling as you rub the polish deep into the hollows of his horns.

 

‘Doin’ just up and perfect, brother, singing so pretty for me... Just gotta relax, let a brother get to finishing on your horns, ain’t nothing in the world worth worrying about now.’

 

For once, he sure as fuck don’t seem like he’s worrying about anything when he trills softly and nestles further into the pile. Karkat’s happy, and as you gently massage where his horn meets his scalp, bonelessly relaxed under your care.

 

Poor little motherfucker don’t even know what you got up your sleeve. His eyes fluttered shut sometime before you finished up on his horns, and you thumb his cheek as lightly as you can to get him to open them.

 

‘All done, brother. Horns polished up all shiny and beautiful.’ It takes him a little to form the words to answer you.

 

‘T-thank you, Gamzee,’ he manages, inviting you into the pile with a flick of his hand.

 

You chuckle a long while, and shake your head.

‘Nuh-uh. Not yet. Got… something I’ve been all meaning to try, first. You down with a brother getting his bitching love experimentation on?’

 

Karkat hesitates, and then hesitates some more when he notices you noticing him hesitating. But eventually, there’s a sigh and a small nod of his head.

 

‘Go ahead.’

 

You grin, all fang-filled and unabashed, and he eyes the hand of yours what’s edging towards the kit. You retrieve a small bottle, and his grey eyes narrow. Oh, you’re gonna smooth that expression right off his beautiful face.

 

You cosy up into the pile as gently as possible as so to not disturb your palest love, and you start by wrapping him up in yourself and getting your limbs tangled all proper-like. He burns, miraculously, and you can feel your skin’s cool rising to meet him. You can _feel_ his touch warming you, and it is the most incredible thing.

 

Emboldened, you sneak a hand under his sweater, stroking along his sides, tracing feather-light patterns into his skin made to soothe. Among them are lines, swirls, diamonds, and then a single heart, right above his pusher. You still your palm for a moment to feel it beat, and it speeds up. For _you_. Your own pusher just about skips a beat.

 

You find yourself pressing your lips to his jaw, lingering, taking in the mirth of him, and then move a little lower, fangs ghosting along the side of his neck in a way what makes him shiver lightly. Nuzzling into his neck, you chirr at him, and he returns the noise.

 

‘Would a motherfucker be opposed to slipping outta that there sweater of yours?’ you half-whisper, and he obliges before you place your larger hands over his own and slip the garment off for him. The rest of his clothing is also discarded out of comfort.

 

Once the sweater's off, you can’t keep yourself from looking. He is a sight to behold, beauty more striking than the moon and the stars and the sea put together, the most pitiful troll you’ve ever laid gander to, and you tell him so.

 

It is now that you squeeze a little out of the bottle what you fished out the kit, and rub it into your hands- oil, for massages. You steal a glance at the slender form of his shoulders. Even after a good hornrub, those are wont to be tight, so you get to spreading your hands along his back and kneading at the taut muscle there.

 

He makes a happy sound in his throat, and you hum as you continue on with the repeated movements, ducking down in a moment of weakness to pepper kisses along the junction where shoulder meets neck.

 

‘You’re wonderful, brother, you know that?’ you whisper, and knead deeper, work out knots he probably didn’t even know he’d worked himself into. Karkat lets out a shaky breath.

 

‘T-that’s good.’

‘Yeah?’ you breathe back.

‘Yeah.’

 

Once he’s limp and relaxed against you, you move on, giving the area one last little kiss before your hands slip downwards, working over his chest ‘til you get to his soft stomach. He squirms slightly, but you hush him with a hand.

 

‘ _Shoosh._ Ain’t no part of you what’s worth getting anxious over. ‘S beautiful, Karkat. Promise you. Every mother fucking part of you, every single plane. Diamond love, moirail mine, _you are a sight to behold_.’

 

You start up a new massage at the slight tension in his ribs, pressing circles with the pads of your thumbs. He is everything you’ve ever up and dreamed of.

 

You make your way downwards, get to massaging at his hips, his thighs ~~(you might linger just a _little_ too long for a moirail)~~ his deceptively soft calves, down to his ankles and the arches of his feet, the pads of his toes. His purr is crackly and loud now, and it is the most beauteous of symphonies to your ears.

 

Something swells in your chest, and it’s like you’re both four sweeps old again, the feeling is all happiness and fearlessness. The strong realisation that you are absolutely head over horns for the troll curled up beside you hits you right in the pump biscuit, and there are tears in your eyes as you hold him. He holds you in return, he _knows_ and he loves you still.

 

The last of the oil is used as you tenderly press and rub at his back, long fingers working him over and over ‘til he’s slack-jawed and starry-eyed beneath you.

 

‘Love o’ mine?’ He grunts to show you that even while dizzy with pale pheromones, he’s still capable of responding.

 

‘Got something else what I wanna get to showing you. C’mere.’ You scoop him up into your arms and cradle him against your chest. Your bloodpusher goes off into erratic rhythm as he crashes his lips into yours, and you step over the threshold of your hive just as starry-eyed as Karkat himself.

 

 -

 

At the soft crunch of sand underneath his feet, you realise that Gamzee has taken you out onto the beach. You know that he’s spent most of his nights out here, waiting on a lusus who’ll never come. Several times, he’s stayed out so long he’s fallen asleep, that he’s almost been caught out by the sun’s deadly rays. Suddenly, your chest is aching for your moirail.

 

He feels it too, apparently, as when you thumb over his cheek, you brush the wetness of a tear.

 

‘Hey. I’ve got you,’ you remind him, clinging as he sets you both down in the sand.

‘I’m not going anywhere. And that’s a _promise_. I’m not like him. You didn’t deserve that.’

 

Gamzee chokes on a sudden sob, and holds you just as tight as you’re holding him. You could never let go of him. Not ever. This troll is the centre of your universe.

 

The sentiment is forgotten only as Gamzee sprawls back and fixes his gaze on the sky, and you follow his gaze upwards.

 

You nearly gasp.

 

The stars above you are a swirling nebula of tiny white pinpricks and constellations, so infinite you couldn’t ever hope to chart them all, illuminating the blackness of the night sky in such a way that for a second you think Gamzee’s caste may be onto something when they speak of miracles. You steal a glance at your moirail to see if he reacts in the same way, and his purple eyes are like a window to another world. They reflect every emotion, every passion, every longing of his, and you could stare into them forever. The colour is so deep that you can see stars reflected in their surface.

 

It is when he wraps an arm around you and begins to point out his favourites among the stars that you realise that you are in love with him. Wholly, unabashedly, you want Gamzee Makara. He is everything you crave, his gentle touch, his never-ending patience, his ardent support, the absolute adoration he reciprocates in every gesture, every touch. You want to take care of him, you want to make him happy, you want to be the one who makes _him_ happy.

 

He turns to you, stars apparently forgotten in favour of watching you, and takes your face in his hands. Your eyes lock. Your breath hitches.

 

‘Thank you. For this. For _everything_. Love you,’ you manage, voice wavering on the last words. He smiles, and it’s so fucking pure and sweet and open and _trusting_ that you almost want to cry. Gamzee’s blushing under his paint again as he stutters on his reply.

 

‘You got me seeing stars, Karkat. Thought of you puts whole constellations before my eyes.’

 

You kiss him again. The only things that exist in the moment are you, your moirail, the feeling of his lips on yours and the sound of waves crashing on the distant shoreline as you love each other like you were destined for it.

 

 _Constellations._ You think you understand what he’s talking about.


End file.
